The laughter was like the lords' roars from before. If those roars were thunderbolts flashing across this mild, endlessly unchanging abyssal sky, then this laughter was the fine drizzle after the thunder had faded and all clamor had gone—a misty fall that flowed into one's heart.
Ruger could not help but freeze for a moment, and the entire battlefield of flesh seemed to stall for that instant as well.
Then came roars from every direction, as though they were deeply displeased with the owner of that laughter.
The battlefield of flesh surged once more. Swarms of demons were like an endless sea of waves, like a single whole—yet in every corner of the battlefield, they were each distinct lives falling one by one. Weaker demons distinguished friend from foe, yet under the influence of the battlefield of flesh, they would still swarm stronger enemies. Slightly stronger demons fought on their own; instinct could no longer wholly drive them, but that only made them more dangerous. Demons another tier stronger were far more unrestrained, often unable to distinguish friend from foe in pursuit of their goals.
Ruger opened his mouth and spat out a large mouthful of black and red. Before dying, that unlucky demon had flung up a huge patch of mud, leaving his mouth full of a rank, stinking taste.
At this moment, the demons were tireless soldiers, constantly pouncing upon and slaughtering demons carrying the auras of different lords.
Ruger no longer even knew which direction he had come from.
The old demon was still patting Mahama on the head, occasionally issuing orders and directing the demons to change course, avoiding danger as they advanced. Their group was like a small reef amid the demon tide.
Ruger raised a brow, both curious and surprised—surprised by the old demon's